


Winter's End

by rikkitikki



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3285794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikkitikki/pseuds/rikkitikki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Our newest acquisition - a Tal-Vashoth mage plucked from Seheron's coast." Durand gestures towards the towering Qunari at her side, the ox-woman's face blank as she stares at the floor. "Herah, formerly of the rogue Qunari forces, now of Minrathous."</p><p>Dorian met the Inquisitor once before, and knew her for a week. He also spent that week contending with blood magic, political treachery, and no less than three assassins - but then again, it wouldn't be a holiday in Tevinter otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's End

If there was anything Dorian despised most out of all his social obligations, it was _political vacations._ Not even a new set of robes and an Archon's ransom in fine Antivan whiskey could salvage the week.

"Dorian," Alexius had sighed, watching the man in question pack up his papers and books stormily. For the moment it was just that, just an exasperated _Dorian_ as he tossed aside a copy of _Tevene Historium_ worth more than the rings on his fingers. "Dorian, you must understand. It is an investment of time."

"It's a _waste_ of my time." Dorian of House Pavus examined the next title in the stack on his desk, tossed it aside. The next two went over his shoulder as well. Just a month over twenty, he was fiery in the way only Alexius truly saw unbridled. Anyone else would've received a respectful brush-off and quiet storming if they were in any way important, his parents included, and something much less courteous if they weren't. "It isn't any marvelously well-kept secret that I've more work to do than half the Magisterium."

"And you think a magister doesn't take time out to visit political allies?"

"But a _week,_ Alexius!" Another book in the bag, another tossed aside. Dorian only wanted to give the illusion of recklessness, though, and so each discarded book landed safely on one of their many, many work tables. "A week that I, may I remind, am not socially _required_ to spend with madame Durand. My parents have done the deed by themselves before."

"When you were too young to see her parade of topless slaves." Alexius didn't coddle, and perhaps that's why he and Dorian made such a good fit; to feed into Dorian's ire would be like throwing wood into an open flame, but to dismiss or ignore him outright would be more akin to having a fireball thrown in your face. The magister, on the other hand, wouldn't tolerate genuine brattiness or sloppy work, and Dorian had nothing of the sort for him; the boy had more than made up for the time Alexius had invested in him with his wild intelligence, careful respect, and near backbreaking work ethic. Even for a sojourn to Minrathous he took his materials. "Now you have no excuse not to pay your respects to her, just as your parents do. Maker's sake, Dorian, consider actually _vacationing._ I won't hold a week against you."

"And instead spend a week admiring the madame's quaint little collection of dwarven teakettles? I'd rather the mind-numbing time distortion theorems, Alexius." The magister couldn't help but laugh, watching Dorian flash a withered smile as he threw his bag across his shoulder. "But I suppose it can't be helped. Give my goodbyes to Felix on the off chance I'm smothered in topless slaves, you know how the madame delights in _indulgence._ "

"We will remember you for what you've done in this world, not how you left it." They stepped in to give their goodbyes, a firm handshake and a hand clapped warmly on Dorian's bare shoulder. "Take care, Dorian."

"And you as well, my friend."

The Pavus family left for Minrathous that evening by carriage. Dorian looked up from his book only a handful of times, and only when he heard his name mentioned more than twice.

___

They arrived at Minrathous days later, travel-sore and more than happy to lay eyes on the Durand estate. Veres Durand had been apprenticed to a magister herself once, known for her talented divination publicly and her blood-bolstered dreamwalking out of public earshot - that magister had later passed her over for another apprentice when it came time to choose a successor to his seat, and so she had turned her attention to the Circle instead. Eventually she took the seat of First Enchanter at Qarinus' Circle and had since held it for many years, supported by her Altus bloodlines and her masterful, if occasionally heavy-handed watch over the fight for Seheron. She was a woman of height, dark-skinned and haired and eyed, and her features always seemed sharp, somehow.

Dorian had never liked her, but it wasn't personal. A man disliked a viper because it was dangerous, not because he had any personal feud with it. As a son of Tevinter, Dorian had contended with far too many vipers to be afraid of this one.

"Dorian, it's been an age." She shook his hand with a grip slightly firmer than Alexius' had been, her rings digging into his. They both painted on their smiles and followed all the necessary physical cues to keep with politeness, Dorian bowing low to kiss her knuckles genteelly. "Dear boy, how have you been? I hear your apprenticeship to Magister Alexius goes well."

"Splendidly, although not nearly as impressive as your recent turn of the tides in Seheron." Naturally, he had done his research on recent events in Durand's life; she had recently won a major foothold in the endless war for the island nation, driving out a Qunari encampment and claiming intel that was rumored to be of Ben-Hassrath origin. The Magisterium itself had sent her a formalized letter of congratulation for her expert guidance of their mage forces. Madame Durand seemed appropriately pleased by this show of deference, accepting the compliment with a smile and a tilt of her head.

"You are too kind, Dorian. Were it not for your mother, I would've had you claimed for Celeste by now." Dorian smiled as he straightened, cringing on the inside - the First Enchanter's daughter was sweet as honeysuckle, but his obvious issue with marrying her aside, he hardly wanted to be tied to madame Durand by blood as well as politics. And aside from that, he was reasonably sure she didn't favor men at _all,_ himself included.

"My sympathies, madame Enchanter. You know how mothers cling to their boys. Perhaps I'll talk to her myself." Perhaps he won't. Perhaps he'll instead spend this trip alternately working and drinking himself into a stupor, bags half-unpacked. Perhaps he'll spend time with Celeste in a way her mother isn't intending - no doubt she would appreciate his running interference while she took a roll with that elven maid of hers. Although he visited rarely, they had had that unspoken understanding between them for as long as he could recall - _I understand. You help me, I'll help you._

Maybe he could marry her. Keep the _unsavory_ aspects of house Pavus' scion under wraps, both of them plodding through the marriage only as much as necessary. Children, somehow. A child. He only needed one.

Something twisted in his gut at the idea, and it took his father shaking his shoulder to snap him out of it, numbly taking his bags inside (he had insisted on carrying them himself). The guest wing went largely unused, as Durand seemed slightly allergic to overnight guests, and so the wing was a touch dusty as Dorian found his room and mechanically unpacked, robes laid out and work organized - he'd rewritten all of it, the most sensitive bits in code he and Alexius had developed, so he needn't worry about anyone trying to pry while he was away.

Maker, he was exhausted. Physically, mentally - the trip had left him _drained,_ and he still had the madame's yearly Wintersend ball to attend. Loneliness hit him in a sudden, painful pang, and Dorian caught himself wishing desperately that Felix were here with him - or Alexius, or any of his friends for that matter. Instead he had a mindlessly garish party to attend and a First Enchanter looking to marry him off to her sapphically-inclined daughter, a head full of current events and conversational topics he had no interest in, and a sick feeling in his chest at remembering what he was never going to be allowed to have. What he had been taught was wrong when you wanted it with an equal, not just a skin slave.

Laid flat out on his borrowed bed, Dorian forced a crooked smile that he didn't feel. It had worked time and time again to will himself un-miserable, at least for a night, and it would have to do so again. And anyway--

"Well, there's always the whiskey."

And oh, is there the whiskey.

___

And _oh,_ is it fine.

If anything, at least Durand knows how to throw a proper Wintersend ball. The manor had been decorated lavishly for the occasion, silvers and blues abound as Minrathous' elite milled about gossiping; Dorian heard of at least three affairs and two suspicious deaths on his way to the drinks, one mildly interesting account of a blood magic scandal with an aspiring magister after he gets there - and that's without _actually_ listening in.

A relatively uneventful Pluitanis, then. Dorian tried not to let his disappointment show, starting in on his second whiskey for the evening.

A sudden gasp among the crowd caught his attention. The crowd was too thick to see what was going on in detail, but Dorian's heart leapt instinctively when he saw a great pair of horns rising above the guests' heads, people parting like wheat to remove themselves from the figure's path. _Qunari,_ and a Qunari at such an event, it was--

"Marvelous!" A woman cried out - Dorian was reasonably sure it was the one he saw earlier traipsing around in a gown with embroidered elephants on the sleeves. How nauseatingly _kitsch._ "Veres, how did you acquire it? It is so difficult to find living _Saarebas_ without their keepers. And without that grotesque mask on."

 _Saarebas_ \- a Qunari mage? An acquisition of Durand's, presumably, which wasn't altogether surprising considering her position in Seheron. Dorian began to quietly shoulder through the crowd, admittedly very interested in seeing this Qunari mage; he had seen Qunari before, of course, if at a distance, but to see a living Qunari mage outside of Qunari territory was practically unheard of. The way the Qunari kept their slave-mages was a reliable constant in Tevinter propaganda, and so Dorian knew that once it - once _they,_ he mustn't let this crowd influence him - were separated from their handler for any amount of time, they were to be killed. Most were so heavily indoctrinated that when such an event occurred, they killed themselves.

"This Qunari was Tal-Vashoth - a heretic under the barbaric Qun. My men showed this oppressed creature mercy where there was none - compassion where the Qun held only scorn, fear, and death." He was almost through now, could see Durand's ringed hand rise above the crowd's hairline with every new bit of sensationalist drivel. Dorian felt the same about the Qunari that any decent Tevinter sort did, but to be so _blatant_ \- simply distasteful. If Magister Marius could only have worn a slightly less _ridiculous_ collar, he might be able to--

"Our newest acquisition - a Tal-Vashoth mage plucked from Seheron's coast." Durand gestured towards the towering Qunari at her side, the ox-woman's face blank as she stared at the floor. "Herah, formerly of the rogue Qunari forces, now of Minrathous."

For some reason, he hadn't been expecting a woman. The materials Tevinter distributed tended to feature muscular, terrifying male Qunari warriors or beaten down _Saarebas,_ grim warnings written underneath them as they stared helplessly from posters, warnings about a fate worse than death should they fall under Qunari hands. The Tamassran were known of, but rarely featured. In truth, the woman before him - a full head taller than Durand, and the tallest in the room by a handful of inches - was the first female Qunari he had ever seen. Even surrounded by gawking Tevinter mages, he had to admire the quiet, solid dignity she held herself with, eyes only as far down as they needed to be to please Durand, the line of her shoulders still set wide. She had had her long stark white hair fastidiously washed and combed for the occasion, horns polished and decorated with gold bands and hanging jewelry that stood out against the slate grey of her skin. If he focused hard enough, he thought could see the scars on her lips.

"Is it savage?"

"Does it speak?"

"I've heard the Qunari magekind are pitiful with their magic. Is that true?"

The deluge of questions went on until Durand waved her hand to silence them, the room in a (mostly) quiet rumble of expectation that Dorian couldn't really fault. This was his first look at a Qunari mage too, and a female one at that - when the Qunari stepped forward at the First Enchanter's bidding, the nobles slunk back enough for Dorian to see her more clearly. Around her neck was a smooth steel collar painted gold for the occasion, which he recognized as Qunari-turned-Tevinter technology meant to feed off an individual's magic; he imagined Durand had the matching ring that controlled it, acting as a catalyst to alter how much magic the collar drained. If she funneled her own magic into it, he knew, she could punish the wearer however she pleased - fire and the collar would heat, lightning and it would shock, ice and it would constrict the windpipe. A sadistic contraption, but undeniably brilliant. The original Qunari model had only sapped magical power.

"She is mute. We have made many attempts to teach her since her arrival, but it seems that she has had her voice stolen from her," Durand went on, ignoring the rumble of disappointment through the crowd. "Never forget that those of the Qun are savage in this way. A Tevinter soldier she wounded severely was the one to cut her stitches - not even her own Tal-Vashoth would do her this simple kindness."

The Qunari - Herah, if he had heard correctly - didn't react. They had painted her face and body with gold in mockery of _vitaar,_ warrior's poison replaced with glossy Tevinter paint for the sole point of entertaining her captors; Durand had at least had the decency not to have the Qunari parading around naked, having dressed her in an admittedly very fine set of silken robes for the occasion, black with great gold Tevene dragons twisting along the material in a subtle sign of ownership. They sat low her shoulders and dove lower, baring everything from her collarbone to just above the swell of her breasts, decent enough not to show cleavage and present a slave as an object of desire, rather than simply an object. A skin slave was always presented as what it was, something to be used - the fact that Durand was already tempting the crowd was outrageous, but harmless enough that it would only cause a buzz around this party for weeks.

"...is not dangerous." Dorian had been lost in thought, snapping back to Durand fielding questions. He tried to catch up, the whiskey setting a low, comfortable buzz behind his eyes. "The collar she wears prevents her from any unauthorized use of magic, and although she was initially combative, we have since corrected her. Herah is no threat to you, my friends. To illustrate this fact, she will be pouring wine for the evening."

An unsure wave of murmurs broke out in the hall. Durand simply smiled, accepting a candelabra offered by one of the other servants and handing it to the Qunari. She took it gracefully, eyes lifting as Durand's ring flashed - and Dorian could've sworn that the Qunari's eyes, an amber that reminded him vaguely of the eyes he had seen in stuffed dragons, had flashed brighter for just a moment. Her eyes widened and her shoulders twitched slightly as she felt her magic come back to her, but the life bled out of her just as quickly as it shifted to the candelabra. She swept her hand over the unlit wicks, and the crowd hummed with approval as she held it aloft, subservient at Durand's side.

"Come, let us move to the dining hall." Durand lead the way with her Qunari close behind, robes sweeping in a cut that made them flutter like the tailfeathers of a bird - the guests' appreciation was nearly palpable, but Dorian was immune, stuck in place. When she had started at the rush of magic, most had been staring at her face, but Dorian's eyes had dropped to her admittedly ridiculous sleeves. The rest of the outfit was sleek, handsome; he had first assigned it as bad taste on Durand's, but he had seen something when Herah brought her hand up to light the candles. Long scars carved their way up her forearms, thick and ragged like they had been done on the fly. In battle, perhaps.

"Dorian? You're going to miss the first course," his father had said, and Dorian had actually jumped at the sudden touch. "Are you well? You've been indulging again, haven't you?"

"No more than anyone else, father." The excuse stumbled out quickly enough, but Dorian's tendency to drown himself in liquor at these fantastically dull parties wasn't exactly a new development. His father only sighed - Dorian slipped out from underneath his grip, leading the way. "But you're right. Wouldn't want to miss those little shrimp of hers, I know how you love them."

It was easy enough to slide back into his role, but hard not to let his eyes linger on the Qunari woman as she served them. Later on that night, in bed, Dorian would wonder about her, about what he saw, about what it meant until exhaustion finally took him.

How the hell did a Qunari learn blood magic?


End file.
